


Not Quite Divine Intervention

by MonstrousRegiment, Pangea



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Charles is a Troll, Erik is not a Happy Bunny, Guns, M/M, Nearly everyone is a douchebag in some form or another, Violence, drug deals, offensive language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MonstrousRegiment/pseuds/MonstrousRegiment, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pangea/pseuds/Pangea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles and Erik have been partners in The Business for who knows how long, well-adjusted to their own individual brands of assholery. They make it work.</p>
<p>After one too many close calls with death, however, Charles starts considering retirement plans.</p>
<p>And Erik, well. Erik just wants to fuck him. He's not picky where.</p>
<p>(a Pulp Fiction AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Quite Divine Intervention

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rumcity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumcity/gifts).



> A very, very late happy birthday to Rum! <3 
> 
> Love always, Panstrous Greg

“Pass the ketchup, Pumpkin.”

“Sure thing, Honey Bunny.”

Raven bats her eyelashes as she holds out a hand, fingers fluttering. Hank slides the ketchup towards her and she proceeds to dump and obscene amount of it on her hash browns. Hank hides a wince. He’s a salt-and-pepper-only kind of man, but Raven will never be denied her tastes. Or her quirks.

“This looks like that one guy,” she says with a conspiratorial grin, pushing the mushy-looking potatoes around her plate with her fork. The ketchup smears across the shitty white ceramic. “Remember, Pumpkin? On our last—”

“Keep it down, Honey Bunny,” Hank interrupts with a glance around. The closest people to them are two angry-looking guys who are far too absorbed in taking the piss out of each other, judging by the sniping going on. Get a room.

“We should do it here,” Raven whispers, her eyes alight with anticipation. She leans forward across the table towards Hank. Underneath the table her foot slides slowly up his calf. Hank tries not to sweat. “Think how much money that register’s got in it from the morning rush.”

“We don’t have a proper plan,” Hank mutters back. He takes a sip of coffee to calm his nerves. Or something. It’s still caffeine after all. Maybe that wasn’t a solid choice. “There’re a lot of people here. The liquor store was easy because it was just us and the cashier.”

“You know when you go on like this, what you sound like?” Raven asks him teasingly, grinning widely.

“I sound like a sensible fucking man,” Hank growls adamantly, “that’s what I sound like—”

“You sound like a duck,” Raven laughs.  She pulls a face. “Quack quack quack quack quack quack—”

“It’s so much easier to rob a bank,” Hank interrupts her before her animal sounds have a chance to escalate. His eyes are lit now, burning with the same fever-bright light as Raven’s. Crime is a passion—for both of them. “Especially a federal bank, they don’t give a fuck. You don’t even need a _gun_ to rob a federal bank. I head a story once about a man who pulled it off with only a telephone.”

“So you want to rob a bank?”

“No,” Hank says, and then rethinks. “Well—yes, one day perhaps, but I’m just _saying_ that robbing a bank is much easier than a gas station or a liquor store or—”

“But at a restaurant,” Raven interrupts him this time, “no one is expecting to be robbed. At least not as much. And what’s the one thing that everyone brings to a restaurant?”

“A wallet.” Hank catches on at once.

Raven nods triumphantly. “Exactly. A wallet. Think how much money is sitting here just in these idiots’ pockets, not to mention the register itself. Hank. I’m ready to do this right now, right here, come on.”

Hank hesitates. Mostly because one of the guys from the other table has gotten up and walks past, headed for the toilets at the back. Raven is sliding her foot up and down his leg, her eyes never leaving his. Goddamn it. He’d do anything for her at this point.

“Same as last time, remember,” he says idly, taking one last sip of coffee before putting his mug down with a _clink_ , “you’re crowd control and I’ll handle employees.”

Raven leans forward across the table, Hank meeting her halfway and they kiss, wet and sloppy, shared adrenaline making them bold. Hank slides a hand down into his coat pocket as they lean back again and grips the handle of his gun.

“I love you, Pumpkin,” Raven says, grinning at him.

“And I love you, Honey Bunny,” Hank replies, his answering grin sharp and fierce. Then he pulls out his gun, hopping up onto his seat and standing up tall as Raven dives down for her purse where her own weapon is hidden. “Everybody be cool, this is a robbery!”

 

X

 

The building is frankly embarrassing, in a shitty part of town, and no one should be surprised about this given the situation but Charles still manages to look constipated because he has to exist in the same world that holds this building.

They stand out like sore thumbs in their well-tailored suits, and Erik throws a sharp look around with the menacing air of the well trained bird of prey, practically projecting _come closer and I’ll peck your eye out._

There’s only one elevator, with two metal folding doors and lights on top indicating the floor that the box is currently on. Half the light lines are burned out so instead of showing what is quite possibly meant to be a three it shows three unconnected parallel lines.

Erik presses the button to call the elevator and says, “It’s a lifestyle.”

“It’s not that important,” replies Charles, arching a brow.

“It tells you so much about a person,” Erik says emphatically.

“It’s not exactly a reflection upon someone’s psychological background, Erik,” Charles says reasonably. “It’s just a preference.”

“No! It’s annoying and dirty and unpleasant—”

“Erik, come on. It’s not a cornerstone upon which you build a relationship, surely—”

The elevator arrives. Erik pulls the rusty doors open and gestures for Charles to go in ahead of him, not at all just in case the elevator plummets to the basement under the weight, no sir. You can’t prove that in a court of law.

“It’s important to me,” Erik says, gesturing at his own chest and shrugging his shoulders. “It’s important to me so why’s it so difficult to do just that one thing, huh? Really? Is it that difficult?”

“If it’s that important to you, perhaps you should say that up front when you meet someone,” Charles arches a brow, and presses the button for the fourth floor. “‘Hello, I am Erik, I am a professional murdered and I dislike it when people squeeze—’”

“I’m not a professional murderer,” protests Erik.

“You’re a professional,” says Charles punctiliously, “who murders. Ergo—”

“That’s not true,” interrupts Erik. “Those are two perfectly unrelated things that alright, sometimes do coincide. But they’re not one dependent on the other!”

“They are _not_ unrelated,” frowns Charles. “Your job calls for you to kill people sometimes. This is simple math, Erik. A professional plus murdering plus orders equals a professional killer. It’s a straightforward equation.”

Erik’s math is admittedly not all there, but he’s fairly certain that doesn’t quite add up.

He shakes his head. “Murdering is just, sort of a, a—side effect. Undesirable side effect. Collateral damage, even.”

“I have to disagree there,” Charles tilts his head. “It’s hardly collateral damage when you’re called in to ‘deal’ with ‘an inconvenience.’”

Erik gives him an even look. “That’s not always what ‘deal with’ means, Charles.”

 “Honestly Erik, what else could it possibly mean?”

Erik makes use of the mirror on the back wall of the elevator to prissily fix his tie, even though it looks perfect already. “Sometimes I just rough them up a little,” he says, and gives Charles a narrow look. “I suppose you wouldn’t know that, seeing as you just shoot people left and right.”

“I don’t like blood on my suits,” shrugs Charles. “And oh, don’t try to pass off to me as mild. You beat a man to death just three nights ago.”

“He called me a fag!”

“He asked you _for_ a fag,” Charles shakes his head in exasperation. “Really Erik, we’ve been partners for seven years, haven’t you picked up any British slang at all?”

“He said, exactly, ‘can you give me one, fag?”

“No,” Charles raises a hand and tilts his head. “No, he said, ‘can you give me one fag?’ Note the lack of comma. Commas are important. They are the cornerstone of civilized language. Punctuation signs are the key to communication, Erik.”

“He didn’t even say please,” says Erik doggedly. “Manners are important.”

Charles stares at him. “Right, of course.”

“It’s all about respect,” Erik scowls. “Which brings us back to the main subject in this conversation—”

“That you’re an obsessive-compulsive trigger-happy psychopath?”

Erik frowns. “No, we talked about that last night. I mean now in the car.”

“Ah yes. The toothpaste. I had hoped you’d forgotten. My apologies.”

“Just think about it,” Erik says, looking thunderous as he yanks the elevator folding doors open and ushers Charles out, presumably on hopes that if shooting breaks out they’ll get the Englishman first. “It can make or break a relationship.”

“I think things that can make or break a relationship are more along the lines of whether your girlfriend likes to use a strap-on or not,” Charles argues. “Not whether they press the toothpaste from the top or the bottom!”

Erik gestures for them to take a turn right on the hallway and gives Charles an odd look. “That would be a deal breaker for you?”

Charles considers that. “I suppose it’s negotiable if she doesn’t expect monogamy,” he says at length. “But I do like to be fucked, so she’d have to come ’round eventually.”

“It has to be a strap-on?” Erik asks, interested. “It can’t be just her fingers?”

“She’d have to have fairly long fingers,” Charles’s brows arch as he calculates the location of his prostate and the ideal length of a lady’s fingers for them to reach it comfortably. The math doesn’t quite add up.

Erik lifts his hand and looks at his palm and fingers, making his own mental calculations.

“I don’t remember having any problems.”

Charles scoffs. “Like you fingered me for long enough to know.”

Erik makes an indignant squawk. “I fingered you for an appropriate amount of time!”

“Note that ‘appropriate’ is not a term I am fond of using for casual sex,” Charles says mockingly.

“I don’t remember you complaining when you came all over my stomach,” Erik says snidely.

“I don’t remember much at all after the second bottle of whiskey,” retorts Charles.

Erik throws him a dirty look and gestures to a door on the right. “This is our guy. He’s probably not alone in there, so keep your eyes open. Just stay cool.”

“‘Just stay cool,’ he says,” scorns Charles, and raises his hand to rap three times at the door, sharp and fast. He glances at Erik. “Shall I go straight to treachery, do you think, or should I start subtly by loyalty?”

Erik considers this. “If you go with loyalty, I like that Ruth passage you like so much.”

Charles thinks about it for a moment. _Entreat me not to leave thee_. “I’m not very sure it applies.”

Erik shrugs and mutters, “We should have shotguns.”

Charles rolls his eyes. They’ve been over this conversation several hundred times. If it were up to Erik, he’d go around the world with a sniper rifle strapped handily to his back for work and recreational use. It’s up to Charles to keep a leash on him and his deranged tendencies.

The door flies open and the first thing the man on the apartment gets an eyeful of is the muzzle of Erik’s SIG Sauer pistol.

“Hello, my friend,” Charles says pleasantly. “Please do step back slowly and with your hands in the air. There’s a lad.”

The man—boy, really—steps back shakily into the apartment, all the while staring so intently at the muzzle that he goes cross-eyed. Erik steps after him, and Charles closes the door behind himself with a quiet click.

There are two other kids in the apartment, one sitting at the table and another one on the couch, fast asleep. Erik withdraws his pistol from Kid 1’s face and goes over to kick the sleeping one in the knee. He jars awake with a cry and freezes at the sight of Erik looming over him in his tailored Tom Ford dove-grey suit, hands incased in supple leather driving gloves and pistol ready at his side.

Charles is not made of stone and has to admit Erik cuts a memorable figure, although he could do without the stubble and a haircut would not go amiss.

“Now let’s all of us keep calm,” Charles says, smiling politely. He gestures to the other chair by the table. “May I take this chair? Thank you.”

He sits down and crosses his legs elegantly, reaching up to unbutton and open his charcoal-grey suit jacket.

“Janos,” he says, lacing his fingers primly. Erik prowls to the kitchenette and helps himself to the coffee in the carafe. As he searches for milk he lights himself one of his cigarettes and blows smoke from parted lips. Charles tears his eyes away from those lips that’d looked so well stained red and stretched around—right. The matter at hand.

“Tell me, do I look like a berk?”

Janos’ eyed widen. “I—I don’t—”

Charles leans forward and grins. “Oh, you don’t? Why I was fairly certain you believed _just_ that.”

“I—don’t know what that means,” Janos stutters.

“Ah,” Charles blinks.

“Berk,” says Erik, blowing smoke through his nostrils. “An idiot. Similar in tone to 'prat’, 'prick', 'twat' or others. Originally from the rhyming slang 'Berkeley Hunt,’ for 'cunt,’ although not generally considered as offensive as that.”

There is a moment of silence.

“See? I do pick up your stupid British slang.”

“Sod off,” says Charles cheerfully, and then turns back to Janos. “But yes, that. Do you think I look like a twat?” He makes a noise and snaps his fingers demandingly.

“Idiot,” suggests Erik. “Retard, dick, a stupid asshole, a man incapable of understanding—”

“No,” says Janos quickly. “Not at all, no. I don’t think—that.”

“You don’t think that… what?” asks Erik, coming around to stand at Charles’ shoulder.

“…sir?” Janos asks tentatively. Charles nods encouragingly. “I don’t think that, sir,” the boy says more firmly.

“So you don’t think we’re idiots,” Erik confirms. Janos nods. “Alright. So why the hell did you have to go steal from Shaw?”

Janos’ face goes bone-white and shakes his head wildly. “I didn’t—”

Charles shakes his head very slightly, slowly, and Janos’s eyes fix on his. Charles changes his movement subtly into a slow nod, lips curling coldly. Sweat breaks on Janos’ forehead, but he nods along.

“Good boy,” says Erik, and sips his coffee.

“You see, Janos, when the Boss’s main dealer gives you blow to deal in your own time and fashion, and they tell you they expect half of your earnings, this is not, as you might believe, a suggestion, but rather a contract of words. And as all contracts of words you are, in fact, expected to keep to it to the letter.”

“Like the fine print or whatever?” the boy in the couch asks. He’s clearly high. Charles arches a brow.

“No,” Erik says mockingly. “Not the fine fucking print, you cockless piece of shit, the fairly big fucking print that says ‘don’t fucking steal from Shaw or he’ll cut off your balls and feed them to you.’”

Charles smiles at Janos. “We can part ways amicably,” he says, spreading his hands, palm-up, calmly. “If you only give us the money you were intending to keep that does, indeed, belong to Mr. Shaw, and the rest of the drug that I happen to know you’ve yet to deal.”

Janos shifts in his seat and opens his mouth.

“These terms are non-negotiable,” Charles cuts in mildly. “All protests shall be viewed as hostile action and treated accordingly.”

Janos opens his mouth again, and Charles raises his hand for forestall harsh words.

“I suggest you mind your tongue, now,” he says meekly. “Erik doesn’t like it when people insult us.”

Erik sips his coffee mutely. Janos’ eyes skip from Charles’ blue eyes to Erik’s slate-grey ones, taking in their fine suits, Erik’s expensive backless leather gloves, and the black metal of his pistol. Finally he seems to crumble in defeat, and he murmurs that the case is hidden under a floor tile in the kitchen by the wall to the bedroom. Erik leaves the coffee mug on the table in front of Charles and goes to investigate.

“Are you lads in the business as well?” Charles asks conversationally, twisting in his chair to look at the boy by the door and then the one still lying on the sofa.

The kid that had opened the door for them stay silent and merely stares at him, but Sofa Kid grunts what Charles can only assume is an affirmative. Charles hates Neanderthal sounds in lieu of actual worded responses, because that’s simply very rude and there’s no need for such behavior, thank you very much. Unless you’re Scottish, since the Scottish have perfected grunting and growling to a fine art of communication, but this kid is most certainly not Scottish.

Erik straightens and sits a black plastic case on the countertop, flicking the clasps open deftly.

“Well?” asks Charles.

“Everything seems to be in order,” Erik says over his shoulder, shutting the case firmly.

“Right,” Charles stands up, buttons his jacket again and straightens his sleeves. “Well, this has been fairly pleasant,” he says as Erik comes to stand at his side. “Your services will of course no longer be required—”

Janos yells loudly enough to stun them both, and in a fraction of a second he pulls a handgun from where he had it hidden by his side and shoots several well-aimed bullets at the both of them. He shoots until the magazine empties and the trigger clicks uselessly.

Charles and Erik stare at him. Then they look down at themselves, and at each other.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” growls Erik, and makes professional work of Janos—three bullets to the chest and one to the forehead. Sofa Kid begins to rise and fumble for his own gun, but Charles unholsters his Walther PPK—small but reliable—and finishes him with three shots clustered to his right eye.

As Erik continues to curse and diatribe, Charles turns around and examines the eleven bullet holes in the wall behind them. He stares and blinks and comes closer to stare with a little more intensity. Numbly, he turns around and stares at Erik, blue eyes wide.

“My friend,” he murmurs, “we’ve been touched by an angel.”

“He’s just got shitty fucking aim,” retorts Erik. “It’s not exactly divine intervention.”

“No, no. No. Look at the _holes_. Those bullets went right through us!”

“I have evidence to show the contrary,” Erik gestures at his own not-bullet-riddled torso and then Charles’.

“But the trajectory—”

“Oh God don’t start CSI-ing on me again, for fuck’s sake,” Erik rolls his eyes. He holsters his gun and grabs Charles by the arm to turn him towards the door. “We got lucky, end of story. Come on. The cops’ll be here any minute now.”

“It wasn’t _luck_ ,” insists Charles, gesturing wildly with his other hand. “It was the light of God! We were saved! The Bible says—”

“Fucking hell, not this bullshit again,” Erik mutters, tearing the elevator doors open and shoving Charles inside.

“What do you mean, _again_?”

Erik presses the button for the lobby and throws up the hand not holding the case. “You have a crisis of conscience every six fucking months!”

“I do _not_ ,” Charles straightens, deeply offended.

“Holster your gun,” Erik arches a brow. “And yes you do. Six and a half years ago it was that prostitute over in Boston—”

“She was a child!”

“And then that kid that fucked the boss’ wife—”

“That sort of retaliation was _entirely_ unnecessary—”

“And then that priest—”

“He was a _holy man_! He did _not_ deserve—”

“—only because you’d fucked him, admit it—”

Charles inhales so quickly he chokes, startled and horrified. “I did not fuck him! Bite your tongue!”

“And _then_ it was that boy prostitute we had to hunt down—”

“Yes alright, what is your _point_?”

“My _point_ is you do this every six months! Something happens and suddenly it’s ‘Erik, an angel saved us’ this and ‘Erik, we should give up this life of crime and horror’ that and you start quoting shit from the bible every twenty fucking minutes.”

Charles huffs in disgust and yanks the doors open, stomping down the lobby to the door without a backwards glance. Erik doesn’t bother closing the doors again and instead stalks after the shorter man, scowling murderously. Charles slams his door closed and crosses his arms, saying not one word as Erik backs out of the carpark and joins the street traffic.

The next ten minutes go completely in silence.

“I want tea,” Charles says suddenly.

“What?” hisses Erik.

“I want tea,” the Englishman says clearly. “I’ve just had a brush with death and I want tea, so find a diner.”

“Oh my god,” Erik slams his hands on the wheel. “You did _not_ just have a brush with death, that kid was _useless_ with a gun—”

“I want tea, Erik.”

“Alright!” Erik yells. He inhales deeply holds the air and releases it in an explosive sigh. “Fine. I know a diner nearby that makes great apple pie just the way you like it. Ten minutes.”

“Wonderful,” says Charles, more wearily now. Charles doesn’t hold onto anger very well, luckily for Erik.

Erik whips down two streets and blows through one traffic light completely and normally this is the part where Charles starts critiquing Erik’s driving skills—god knows he needs it, who the hell issued this man a driver’s license—but then Erik takes a hard right and pulls into the carpark of the shittiest-looking diner Charles has ever seen. It’s on par with the building they just left.

“ _Really_?” he asks Erik as they screech to a halt in a parking spot.

“Let’s go get your fucking tea,” Erik growls, throwing off his seat belt and getting out of the car. He even slams the door for added effect. God he’s dramatic.

Charles huffs and follows him, and it’s a short affair of getting inside and being seated by a waitress with too much lipstick. Charles scrunches his nose as he scoots into their booth across the sticky, low-grade plastic seat, bouncing a little. Erik slides in across from him looking like he needs to shoot about three more people before the day can be qualified as okay. Charles’ name is probably at the top of the list.

“Coffee, boys?” a different waitress approaches, smacking her gum and hefting a steaming pot.

“Tea for him,” Erik says, jerking his head in a severely impolite manner at Charles, “but god, yes, coffee for me.” He holds up his mug imploringly.

Charles kicks him under the table even as he turns on his best smile for the waitress. “Earl Grey, if you please, madam, thank you.”

“You disgust me,” Erik mutters.

The waitress looks decidedly unimpressed by them both but fills Erik’s mug. “Coming right up,” she says, and then moves off towards the kitchen.

“No I don’t,” Charles says primly, “otherwise you wouldn’t want to fuck me as badly as you do.”

Erik has just taken a sip of coffee and now it nearly ends up all down the front of his suit. Good thing he manages to spit it out back into his mug because it would have been a crime to damage such finely-tailored fabric. Charles counts himself as a man with good taste. Erik is tolerable because he is rather nice to look at, especially when dressed in suits. His cock isn’t that bad either.

“Goddamn it, Charles,” is all he manages to say, and Charles smiles like the Cheshire Cat. “The fucking end of me, that’s what you’ll—”

“Your tea.” The waitress returns and plunks the cup down in front of Charles. “Can I get you boys anything else?”

“The bill,” Erik says immediately before Charles can speak up.

The waitress raises her eyebrows but pulls out her pad, scribbling on it for the barest of seconds before slapping it down on the table. “Have a nice day.”

“Who says I didn’t want a slice of that pie you mentioned?” Charles demands as soon as she’s out of earshot. He takes a sip of his tea and wrinkles his nose only slightly. It’s passable. He could probably go back to the kitchen and make a better cup himself but that would _really_ make Erik pop a blood vessel. On second thought, that might be amusing to watch.

“I did,” Erik says in his most falsely-pleasant voice that never fails to make Charles grind his teeth, “because in case you’ve failed to remember, we have a job to do. Finish your goddamn tea so we can get on with it.”

“I think I’m going to retire soon,” Charles announces, blithely ignoring what Erik has just said in a way that never fails to make Erik grind his teeth. They really know each other so well. He takes a long, slow sip. “I’m getting far too old for all this.” He waves an absent hand to detail exactly what he means. “So are you. We should look into retirement plans.”

“Like being shot in the head,” Erik deadpans.

Charles gives him a scandalized look. “Absolutely not. Just think about it. We could get a flat together.”

Erik downs the rest of his scalding coffee in one go, probably so he can get away with making the pained expression he now wears. Wanker. Charles hopes he’s burnt his throat. “I can’t tell if you’re propositioning me or actually being serious.”

“I’m being serious,” Charles sniffs. “Now I’m unsure whether you’re propositioning _me_.”

“Oh please,” Erik snorts, “I get the feeling that I would hardly have to ask.”

“Are you calling me easy?” Charles asks, surveying Erik over the rim of his teacup with cold, glittering eyes. “Because last night you, for example—”

“I thought you said you didn’t remember,” Erik sputters.

“It’s coming back to me,” Charles answers loftily. “But back to my point. We’ve had too many close calls. I think it’s a sign from—”

“Christ, not this again,” Erik growls. “I’m never going to consider living with you if it’s all going to come back to your fucking signs from god—”

“I think we’d be perfectly suited as flatmates,” Charles continues serenely, “I would even press the toothpaste out from the top. Or was it from the bottom you preferred, I can _not_ remember.”

Erik narrows his eyes and Charles hides a grin in his cup, finishing off his tea. Erik is so easy to rile. It could be a sport. Charles would be an Olympic gold medalist. He could get endorsements from Nike.

“You _do_ just want me to fuck you,” Erik says finally and Charles’ eloquent response involves a lot of coughing because it’s one thing for him to joke about it but when _Erik_ starts catching on is when it’s sort of like a…sign.

“Be right back,” Charles says abruptly, setting his empty cup down and sliding sideways out of the booth. “Do pay the bill and try not to miss me, darling.”

Erik rolls his eyes and mutters something very uncomplimentary about where exactly Charles can stick the bill, which seems a little physically impossible, although to be fair Charles has shoved larger things up there in the past, so perhaps _improbable_ is the right term. Charles decides not to comment—Erik should be grateful—and instead makes his way back towards the toilet. He has to edge his way past another booth containing a couple who are very much into each other. It’s sickeningly sweet.

The loo is not as clean as Charles would prefer, because honestly is it really so much to ask for someone to run a clean establishment in this city? They’re moving out, he decides as he takes care of his business without touching anything except the water faucet for the sink when he’s done, they’re not retiring here. Maybe instead of a flat they can get a nice house in the countryside. Fresh air would do _wonders_ for Erik’s temper.

He’s busy drying his hands when several gunshots ring out from within the diner, and Charles actually heaves a sigh. It can’t be Erik; the coffee couldn’t have been _that_ bad. Maybe Janos had friends who tracked them down? That’s going to certainly be a hassle if that’s the case. Still, if it were, Erik probably would have already taken care of it, and Charles hasn’t heard any return fire.

Wearing his most put-upon frown, Charles steps out of the loo to assess the situation.

 

X

 

The ginger psycho with the expensive fucking suit’s got a huge fucking gun, and Hank knows this not because of his otherwise not negligible observational skills, but rather because the barrel of the gun is pressed against his left eye.

He’s got his own gun on the guy’s face too, okay, he’s not an idiot, but he’s terrified while this guy looks just royally pissed off.

“I bet you’re thinking that could have gone better,” the ginger says, a wry twist to his long mouth.

“You hurt him and I swear to god—” Raven chokes on the rest of the sentence, so furious she’s shaking. She’s keeping calm, though, which Hank admires because fuck, he’s pretty sure his balls are crawling up to nestle around the area of his lungs.

“As threats go, that could have been more impressive,” the dude with the huge gun in Hank’s face says, his hand as steady as any rock. He doesn’t even twitch though the angle at which he’s holding his shoulder looks odd. “Although I congratulate you on the use of an open end. I can guarantee the things I can imagine are much worse than anything you might come up with.”

Hank opens his mouth, but the guy lifts his free hand from the table, long leather-covered fingers curling into a shushing gesture near his thin lips. Hank closes his mouth. Hank is pretty sure he’s taller than this guy, so he must have longer arms, but his gun doesn’t reach the guy’s face though Hank’s got an eyeful of gun muzzle. Either there’s something odd with the laws of physics or this guy is compensating for something.

“Well, this is a pickle,” a new voice adds quietly, and Hank twitches in that direction and gets a chill down his back when the gun muzzle moves in until he has to close his eye so the metal will rest on his eyelid instead of, say, his fucking pupil.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” Raven demands harshly, swinging around at once.

“Just now, or originally?”

Raven makes an inarticulate, enraged sound, and Hank sees the ginger dude lift his hand and slap his palm flat on the surface if the table, a loud sound in the startlingly quiet diner.

“I think it’s fair to say we’re the main show here,” he says to Hank, gunmetal grey eyes hard and cold. “What’s your name, kid? I’m Erik.”

“Hank,” he croaks.

“Alright, Hank, here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to tell your girlfriend to get her gun out of my partner’s face, or I’m going to rearrange the insides of your skull on the linoleum floor. Hm?”

“I think this qualifies as a draw,” Hank says tentatively.

“I can see why you’d think that with your back turned to the scene, but let me tell you, my partner can shoot a gun much quicker than she can and even if she were to by some miracle be faster, she’d still get a bullet to the gut and kid, I know precisely how nasty a gut-wound-death can be, trust me.”

“Raven?” Hank raises his voice shakily. “Does he have a gun on you?”

“I can get him!”

“You really can’t, dear,” the other man says mildly. “For one, your aim is off, you’re aiming at my shoulder. No, no, a bit—ah, there you are. No, too much, that’s way above—come now, you can do better than that, surely—”

Hank is beginning to get the idea they’ve bitten off a lot more than they can chew.

“Honey Bunny,” he rasps. “Stay still.”

“Yes,” the other man says pleasantly. “I also believe that is a good idea, Honey Bunny.”

“What are you, Cupcake?” Erik asks, looking a bit like he wants to laugh, but also like maybe he wants to shoot Hank a little bit more depending on how he answers.

“Pumpkin,” Hank answers miserably.

Erik’s lips twitch. “Perfectly respectable. Listen now, Pumpkin—tell Honey Bunny there to lower her gun, and I’ll let you sit down and we can have a polite and civilized conversation, alright?”

Hank, already well aware that they are in over their heads, nods very carefully, and is all too aware of the easy, natural way in which Erik lets the gun muzzle follow his movement, rather than keep it still by stiffening his wrist. The pistol may as well be part of his hand. Fuck. Who the hell _is_ this guy?

“Honey Bunny,” Hank clears his throat. “Do as he says and lower your gun, okay?”

“But—”

“Baby,” Hank says, “please.”

Raven growls, but she must comply because Erik eases back on his seat until the gun is an inch from Hank’s eye, and then he gestures vaguely with a hand until Hank is sliding carefully into the seat across from him. He rests his own gun on the surface of the table, and Erik is not shy in reaching out with his free hand and taking it by the muzzle, pulling it away, and tossing it to the side.

Presumably his partner must catch it, because it doesn’t clatter to the ground.

“Come along, dear,” the British man says politely, coming around the counter and leading Raven by the arm until she slides into the booth next to Hank. The man has both their guns, Hanks sees, and a third that must be his, short but powerful-looking.

“Now,” he says, leaning against the backrest of Erik’s seat. “Normally we would put bullets in the both of you at once, but today you find us in something of an introspective mood. I might even go as far as to say we’re tolerant.”

“Not to be confused with patient,” Erik warns.

“Certainly. Nobody likes a robbery while they’re having tea, that’s just impolite. In future, do be careful to make a quick visual recon before you bring out your guns—you’ll know a bigger wolf by looking at it, as you go along.”

“You’ve got guts, I have to give you that,” Erik nods.

“Hm. Yes. As I was saying—today is something of a special day, and I do believe it deserves a certain special—concessions. So, this once, and mind—” he lifts a single long, thin finger “— _just this once_ , I am willing to be lenient. You are not going to rob this place, and no, I’m not giving you your guns back—you’ve not cleaned them and they’re a mess, and that’s just poor gunmanship for which I refuse to be responsible—but I _will_ give you this.”

He reaches into his inner coat pocket and draws out a blue leather wallet, opens it quickly rifle through it and take out his ID and a few other odds and ends, but ultimately leaves all of his bills and closes it, letting it flop down on the table in front of Hank.

On the front it says in bold black stitches: _Bond. Ionic Bond. Taken, not shared_.

What. The. Fuck.

“You can have that, to help you along,” the Brit smiles indulgently at them. “May the Lord guide you in all of your endeavors.”

Erik rolls his eyes. Raven and Hank stare at the Brit’s cheerful expression. There is a long moment of silence.

Erik smiles. It’s all teeth. Seriously, that can’t be right, there’s got to be like three dozen teeth in there, that’s not natural.  “Take the wallet and leave before I redecorate the inside of your skull.” 

Raven scrambles out of the booth urgently. Hank follows her, grasps the wallet like it might at any moment explode, and the ushers her quickly out of the diner and into the street. They run for their lives.

 

X

 

“Ah,” Charles sighs contentedly. “A good deed.”

Erik holsters his gun, nods at the sell-shocked cashier, and grips Charles’ arm to drag him out of the diner. They go back to the car in silence, though Erik has the distinct feeling they’re not on the same page. Charles looks calm and relaxed. Erik, on the other hand, feels wound up, tight and tense. Charles leans forward to turn the radio on, and _California Dreaming_ rolls smoothly into the air, mellow and sweet. Erik clenches his hands, so the leather of his driving gloves creaks against the leather of the wheel.

Charles lives in Manhattan. Erik’s huge Brooklyn studio apartment, a whole floor in a run-down building that used to be a fire department, is not up to Charles’ ridiculous standards, but it _is_ closer, so Erik drives them there. Charles hums in complaint once, gets an eyeful of German-bred glare, and shuts right the fuck up. Wise.

The tension starts to climb then, once Charles realizes all is not well, and even barely remembers to bring the suitcase up with them for safekeeping. Erik unlocks the heavy door to the building and pushes Charles inside, then stands way too close until the industrial elevator arrives and he can shove open the doors, up and down. Charles emits a minute sigh as he steps into the elevator, and Erik pulls the doors closed and pushes the button to his floor before he’s fisting his hand in Charles’ hair and dragging him close for a heated, furious kiss.

It takes moments for them to reach Erik’s floor but by then they’ve already managed to unbutton their jackets and Charles’ lips and blood-red, his pale cheeks stained with a blush.

Erik knows exactly how far down that blush goes.

The last time they did this—barely last night—Erik told himself next time he’d take his time, go slow, make Charles shake apart slowly inch by inch. Kiss every inch of his unblemished pale skin.

That isn’t what’s happening, though. Erik feels like he’s got fire trapped boiling just beneath his skin, heating up his body. If he waits, he might combust. Charles isn’t trying to slow him down none, either—shrugging his own shirt down his shoulders, undoing Erik’s belt with deft fingers as Erik twists his hands in Charles’ hair and kisses him, wet and filthy and demanding.

There’s a positively heavenly bed Erik’s spent a small fortune on not ten meters away, but as soon as they’re both naked Erik shoves Charles down to kneel on the couch, gripping the back of it, and presses close against his back so his cock is against Charles’ spine, where he can feel exactly how hard Erik is. Erik cards his fingers through Charles’s dark hair and pulls until the Brit lets his head fall back, mouth open and his normally blue eyes made dark by his fully-blown pupils.

“Don’t move,” Erik orders roughly. “I’ll be right back.”

Charles lets his head fall forward, dark hair tumbling against his forehead and eyes. He really needs a haircut, but Erik certainly won’t be the one to suggest it. His eyes linger over the vulnerable nape of Charles’ neck, down the long sinuous line of his spine to his round ass. He can see Charles’ cock erect between his legs, already wet at the tip.

He manages to tear his eyes away enough to walk to the bedside table and yanks open the drawer, fishing for lube and condoms. When he comes back he finds Charles stroking his cock almost absently, rocking slowly into his own hand. Fire rages through Erik’s chest, making his breath catch. He crowds in behind Charles, leaned forward to kiss his shoulder and run gentle fingertips along the insides of his thighs, from knee to the joint of thigh and groin, trailing light over his balls. Charles’ hand is fisting the tip of his cock, so Erik fists the root and squeezes, relished the way Charles shudders and sways forward.

Erik sweeps Charles’ hair away from his nape and mouth at the delicate skin there as he flicks open the lube and coats his fingers. Charles widens the grip of his hands on the back of the couch so he can lean forward until his chest is against the edge and he can let his head hang down. The position shows off his lovely broad shoulders, so Erik mouths at his shoulder blades as he eases a finger inside Charles, his other hand easy around them to scratch lightly over a nipple. Charles jerks at the sensation, panting.

It’s something of a point of pride to finger Charles open slowly now, considering the complaints about last night, but Erik really can’t handle the wait himself and, in any case, he knows the truth—Charles likes to feel the stretch of penetration, just as much as he likes to go slow, every once in a while. He knows far more about Charles than he usually lets on, and now is finally the time to show it off.

He pulls back to tear the condom open and roll it quickly on, and then leans back in, pressing his chest against Charles’ back as he sinks his fingertips on the insides of the Brit’s thighs.

“Open up,” he murmurs into Charles’ ear, and hums in approval when Charles slides his knees further apart to spread his legs. He knows Charles won’t always be this accommodating—it’s in his nature to be difficult, contrary and stubborn—but Erik likes that he’s folding to him now. Like he knows what this is, like he knows what Erik needs—to have him beneath himself and keep him there where he can control him, briefly, and keep him safe. Erik refuses to call the events in Janos’ apartment a _brush with death_ , but for all his bravado he still needs a little reassurance every now and then.

So Charles lets his body fall forward and gasps when Erik smoothes his hands up his back to his shoulders and thrusts in, gently but in one movement, until his hips are flush against Charles’ ass.

“Ah,” Charles exhales, for once utterly speechless, as Erik slides his hand up his chest to straighten him back up until his palm rests where Charles’ throat starts and there’s nowhere they’re not touching from shoulders to thighs. The skin is hot beneath Erik’s palm, Charles’ chest flushed. The Brit’s head rolls back on Erik’s shoulders, and his open mouth is right there so Erik kisses him, deep and possessive, as he starts rolling his hips.

Charles’ breath catches. Erik’s other hand slides down and finds his cock, fisting it loosely. There’s no rush, but he can’t go too slow, either, or the fire will burn him to a crisp. He holds out for as long as he can, moving sensuously, teasing Charles and himself, until his chest is heaving and sweat is gathering between them.

Then he pushes Charles away, so he leans against the back of the couch and his head bows forward. Erik leans over him and grips the back of couch by Charles’ hands and he starts moving in earnest, dropping his forehead to the back of Charles’ head and setting a fast, punishing rhythm. Charles is almost entirely silent, but for gasps and low moans, too busy struggling to short, fast breaths to be too loud. Erik can only manage low grunts anyway, and in any case—it’s not like there’s anything to say. Seven years this has been building between them, and now that they have it, well—no reason to stop for a chat.

Erik can feel it climbing like lightening in his veins, gathering at the small of his back and pooling at the pit of his stomach, bright and white and fast. Before it does he yanks Charles roughly back against him and fists his cock, nothing like gentle, until Charles is twitching uncoordinatedly.

He can’t manage to make Charles come first—it swallows him up before, a swell of white against his eyelids that makes his spine bow forward until his mouth is pressed so tight against Charles’ shoulder that he can’t help but bite down hard into it. It takes him long moments to come down and be able to move again, feel the way Charles is trembling strung with need against him. He wants to suck Charles off, but he knows better than to pull out—he knows Charles likes the feeling of his cock inside, and will help him have a stronger orgasm once he reaches it.

He gets his fingers in Charles’ hair, a damp and tangled mess by now, and pulls back until Charles is arching back against him, cock jutting obscenely out between his spread thighs. Erik knows how to make Charles come down before he winds him up again, teasing long and mean, but he can tell Charles is too close for that sort of game tonight. Instead he goes about it quickly, doing exactly what he knows Charles likes, what he made him show him last night.

It’s moments before Charles is coming undone, moaning surprisingly loudly against Erik’s mouth as he arches back sinfully, ropes of semen spilling between Erik’s fingers and against the back of the couch.

Well. It was cheap anyway.

He maneuvers until he’s lying down on his back, with Charles sprawled atop him between his thighs. He should really get up and dispose of the condom. He should get a towel for the couch. And for themselves and their sweat.

What he does instead is stare at the ceiling of his studio apartment and says, “Maybe a beach somewhere.”

Charles considers that. “I’m English. We better invest in a sunscreen company.”

“Hm. Not Cuba,” Erik wrinkles his nose in distaste. “It’s full of tourists.”

“ _We’ll_ be tourists.”

“We’ll be _immigrants_ ,” corrects Erik, bringing his clean hand up to push the hair away from Charles’ half-lidded eyes. “I like Panama.”

“Hm,” Charles smiles, eyes falling closed. “Somewhere small. With a small church.”

“Yes,” hums Erik. “I like that idea.”

The drift asleep, warm pressed together in the couch, until the ringing of Charles’ phone wakes them well after nightfall.

The Brit sighs, but duty calls, and Shaw hates delays, so he gets up and fishes it out, unselfconscious and glorious for it. Erik sits up to take the condom off and tie it before he gets up to bin it in the kitchen.

“What do you _mean_ , Alex ran off?” Charles asks, baffled. Erik turns to stare at him, startled. Alex, Shaw’s favorite boxer pet, running off? “With whom the hell would he—friend, what friends, he has no friends, he’s a bratty little—”

He inhales sharply and his eyes dart up to Erik, wide.

“Hank and Raven, you say,” he says slowly. “I wonder where they came across the money to buy those tickets. Ah, the mysteries of life. Wes, certainly, we’ll be there momentarily.”

Erik’s mouth is open. 

Charles closes his phone with a quiet click. He stays still for a moment. Then he flips it over, opens the back and takes out the battery. Erik scrambles to his trousers and does likewise. Crouching naked on the floor, covered in sweat and some of Charles’ semen, he stares up at his partner of seven years, pale and naked in the moonlight.

“I may or may not have assisted Alex’s friends in acquiring sufficient funds to purchase three plane tickets to Mexico and escape,” Charles says neutrally. 

Eloquently, Erik says “Well, shit.”  

There’s a long moment of silence.

Then Erik straightens and gives Charles a long, solemn look.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he says flatly.

“Oh, _sod off_.”


End file.
